Freedom and Fear: My Post-Ferguson Perspective

I was walking down the street in my neighborhood in San Francisco, when I saw a young black guy walking towards me, about 20 years old, pants sagging, and I felt a flash of fear.  A brief but overwhelming surge of concern for this young man’s life. It was a new and disturbing feeling.

In the last several weeks I, along with many, have experienced a mix of emotions over the deaths, and subsequent grand jury decisions not to indict in the killings of Michael Brown, John Crawford III and Eric Garner. Frustration that our justice system keeps delivering the same unjust result and declaring itself in good working order. Anger that so many refuse to acknowledge a problem. Sadness for these victims’ families and the unnecessary loss of life.

But the fear is new. I have the luxury of seeing the repeated violence and discriminating treatment of African-Americans from a removed position. I am an Indian-American woman who has never been harassed by a police officer. I know it’s wrong and believe we are in desperate need of some changes to our criminal justice system, but I have the privilege of setting down that anger and frustration when it’s time for happy hour or the new Hobbit movie.

What this year’s horrific loop of deja vu has made me realize is not just the anger and frustration of targeted communities, but the fear they carry that is impossible to put down. I am just starting to get the shallowest of understandings of the state of defense many black Americans are in when interacting with the police. In an intensely heartbreaking and eye-opening article, black mothers tell us about the constant warnings they give their sons to be humble, not to reach for anything and to submit – all with the objective of getting home alive. And I’m just starting to realize how many of my black friends have these stories, I just didn’t know.

When carrying an air rifle in the store where you purchased it, in an open carry state, can get you shot. When being a little boy playing in a park with a toy gun can get you shot. When selling un-taxed cigarettes can get you choked to death. The point is not that all cops are racists deliberately killing African-Americans, one at a time, but rather that, black people in this country have a reasonable concern for their own safety in any given interaction with a police officer.

In addition to the fear, my mistrust is new. Upon hearing about police brutality cases and cover ups in the past, I’ve been prone to believe the charges against an organization that is tasked with both protecting and prosecuting its own. (The U.S. military’s handling of sexual assault on soldiers and the Catholic Church’s failures to protect children from predator priests come to mind). These organizations are made up of people, and particularly as you move up a power structure, people are self-serving and defensive, valuing the status quo and expediency over justice. But any previous interaction I’ve had with an individual police officer has been devoid of any tension. I would see a cop walking down the street, and I assume he is doing his job, doing his job well, and that we are all benefiting from his service. With that belief, it would never occur to me to do anything but comply with an order from a police officer.

However, I no longer hold that belief. Now when I see police officers, particularly in groups, sometimes I stop and watch. I’m cautious and hesitantly suspicious. I still live in the bubble of privilege where I don’t have concern for my own safety, but I am no longer convinced that I shouldn’t be concerned for someone else’s. It’s not an either/or proposition. I still believe there are cops who do their jobs well, but now, I will not always assume that’s the police officer in front of me. In not ever questioning how an officer chooses to use his authority, I am complicit in trading my safety for the lives of others. In this environment of fear and mistrust, the lives of both civilians and police officers are more at risk.

And so I was scared for that young black man walking down the street, and I hope that he made it home okay. I hope that they all make it home okay.